


Pressure Point

by MistressParamore



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressParamore/pseuds/MistressParamore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Sir Samuel Vimes is a powerful man. Yet, you don't get to be the second most powerful man of the most powerful city on the Disc without making a few enemies...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_**Pressure Point** _

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…._

* * *

"Fred!"

The creaks on the stairs followed by 5 seconds of busy silence announced the arrival of Sergeant Colon outside Sam Vimes office. The door opened and Fred's rosy face appeared. "Sir?"

"Has her Ladyship arrived yet, Fred?"

"Nossir. Er, what time were you expecting her?" Fred's round face creased in consternation.

Sam glanced at his Disorganizer, where the imp settled for looking smugly back at him. The time was almost noon.

"15 minutes ago," he said distantly. "She'll be here any minute, Fred, so be sure to let me know, right?"

"Yessir." Fred saluted smartly and made his way back down stairs, the stairs creaking obediently in accordance with the laws of weight and mass.

Sam sighed, and glanced worriedly out of the window. He wouldn't say so in front of his men, but he was beginning to be concerned. Sybil was never late, it was a habit she particularly loathed in people, yet had learned to tolerate in him. Possibly because it wasn't tardiness that made him late. So for her to be late was…. worrying.

He shook his head to dispel the uncomfortable thoughts; yet, a lifetime of seeing the very worst in people had honed his policeman's senses to a particularly fine point. And every single one of them stood up and screamed.

* * *

Half an hour later saw His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Sir Samuel Vimes pacing the length and breadth of Pseudopolis Yard, with a retinue of scattered Watch officers alternately cringing from his yells and shouts, and hurrying to keep up. Eventually he stormed up the stairs to his office, slamming the door so hard that the hinges groaned under the strain.

Sam slumped at his desk, head in his hands. This was  **NOT**  Sybil, not to completely miss an appointment, and certainly not one with him. Her unspoken criticism was always that she never saw enough of him. There had been no message, no Willikins bearing an apologetic excuse, no clacks... _nothing_.

Standing abruptly, he strode over to the door of his office and yanked it open. To the quivering officers in the office below, he was an imposing and frightening sight. His face had hardened to granite, eyes flashing and hands unconsciously tightening into fists. Hidden terror and rage coalesced in his very being. As one, the waiting officers drew together even further.

"Get my carriage," he barked. "Now!" Some dispassionate, detached part of him was sardonically amused at the alacrity with which every single officer jumped to attention. Stiffly, he walked down the staircase and picked up his oilskin cloak. "I want to know straight away if you get any news. Understood?" He glared at the assembled Watchmen as he stalked out of the Yard's door and into the waiting carriage. The horses were whipped up so fast sparks danced on the cobbles.

* * *

"What do you mean she's not here?" Vimes screamed into the normally serene face of Willikins the Butler. His normally placid and unruffled countenance was puckered with anxiety, certainly not helped by the proximity of an extremely worried and angry Sir Samuel Vimes.

"Er...she left at 11.30am to meet you, Sir...she expressly requested that the carriage be ready."

"Well she never arrived! Gods, where is she Willikins..." Vimes trailed off, slumping into an antique chair in the hall. Willikins looked perilously close to tears.

His head was swimming in a sea of disbelief.  _This could not be happening, not to Sybil, everyone loves Sybil_.

The beginning of the cacophony of bells started across the city, heralding 2pm. Lady Sybil had been...gone, without explanation...for 2 1/2 hours.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari stirs the mix...

_**Pressure Point** _

_**Chapter 2** _

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…._

* * *

"Sir?"

Vimes squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to drown out the noise.

"Sir?"

Vimes felt a hand grip his shoulder and begin to shake.

Reluctantly he prised open one eye, to be met with the pale and drawn features of Willikins. Immediately Vimes sat bolt upright, ignoring the sudden light-headedness accompanying his movement.

"Any news?" He asked urgently, even though he knew the answer. Willikins would not have let him sleep if he had heard. Plus, the butler looked even worse than before, and that had been only a couple of hours. All he had wanted to do was just sit down for a minute….to think…. _Sybil, where are you? Where_ _ **are**_ _you?_

Vimes rubbed his hand tiredly across his face. He felt as if someone was twisting a knife in his gut, a primal fear unfurling and spreading throughout his being, seeping through his pores. Vimes was afraid, desperately afraid. He knew he pissed off a lot of people, it was one of the things he was most proud of, but he never imagined his family would be a target.  _Gods, just how naïve_ _ **are**_ _you?_ He thought bitterly to himself.  _You think you're clever, that you're untouchable? You piss off the wrong person and they're going to make you suffer. Like now. Trouble is, it's anyone's guess who the bastard is. If they touch her, by Gods, just one hair on her head..._

Vimes sat forward in the chair by the fireplace in the drawing room, resting his arms on his knees as he dropped his head in his hands.

"Sir," the butler tried again, standing respectfully to Vimes' side. "Lord Veterinari requests your attendance."

Vimes groaned.  _I just bet he does_ , he thought sourly.  _I'll just bet he bloody does_. As if things couldn't get any worse.

* * *

Standing in the Oval Office before Veterinari's wooden desk, Vimes stared surreptitiously at Veterinari as he waited for the man to speak. Standing with his back to Vimes, Veterinari was looking out of one of the windows with every sign of engrossment.

"A busy city, Commander," he said eventually. Vimes gritted his teeth.  _Don't tell me he's in one of_ _ **those**_ _moods, where he talks in riddles for sodding hours before he gets to the point. Not now, not while I need to be finding Sybil...surely even_ _ **he**_ _wouldn't..._

Apparently oblivious to Vimes' discomfort, Veterinari continued unperturbed. "Everything in its place, regulated and, against all the odds, it works." He turned around to look at Vimes. "And yet, you cannot rise to the top without making enemies, can you Commander?"

Vimes stared back at Veterinari's impassive countenance.  _Why is he doing this?_ A distant part of his mind wondered.  _We need to be doing something, because if we don't find her today then that takes us to tomorrow and..._ His brain clamped down on the thought.  _No. Not to Sybil. Not to her._

Veterinari stood behind the mahogany desk and idly straightened a sheaf of papers with one long, pale finger.

"Any news?" He asked eventually.  _You already know_ , a traitorous part of Vimes sneered.

"I would have thought you would already know the answer to that, Sir." Vimes said woodenly.

"Indeed." Veterinari continued, aggressively listening.

Vimes sagged. "There's nothing, nothing at all. It's like she's vanished into thin air."

"And how  _are_ things between you?"

The red mist that had been perpetually hovering on the horizon ever since Vimes had discovered Sybil's absence, descended.

"Don't you dare, don't you bloody dare suggest what I think you're suggesting!" Vimes screamed as he waved a finger under Veterinari's nose. Vimes glared through red-rimmed eyes at the tall, thin man opposite, adrenaline coursing through him. Occasionally he twitched. Somewhere, in a detached part of himself, through the fog of rage, adrenaline and fear that enveloped him, he realised what he had done.  _Not only is Sybil missing, Veterinari's going to_ _ **kill**_ _you...he's going to get_ _ **really**_ _polite. Well, if you're pretty much dead in the water..._

"You know something, don't you." He said in a dull, leaden voice.

"Sir Samuel..."

"Don't start with that 'Sir Samuel' crap," Vimes interrupted him. That distant part of him was banging its head against a wall and whimpering.

"If you know  _anything_ , tell me godsdammit. You  _always_ know what's going on!"

Veterinari took a breath.

"This is my  _ **wife**_ , you bastard!" Vimes screamed, hands on the desk in front of him, leaning over the mahogany.

Veterinari stared pointedly at Vimes' hands until he realised what he had done and hurriedly pulled them away.

"Somewhat surprisingly, Sir Samuel, I don't know as much as you assume," Veterinari said coolly.

Vimes glared at him, but widely chose not to comment.

With a sigh, the other man sat down, pushing the meticulously straightened stack of paper to one side.

"Her Ladyship was observed in Sator Square, in her carriage, at around 11am by Cumbling Michael." Vimes nodded, that made sense. She'd had an errand to run prior to meeting him at Pseudopolis Yard.

Veterinari continued. "Her Ladyship got out of the carriage..." he stopped.

"What?" Vimes began to panic. "What?"

"She never got back in it," Veterinari said heavily. "Whatever happened, happened in Sator Square. The carriage is in the yard," he nodded towards the window. "The horse has rubbed down by the groom," he added.

"We'll never get anything in Sator Square, that's why they've done it there," Vimes muttered. Thousands of scents, all mixed together, leaving in a thousand different directions. News like a werewolf in the Watch travelled fast.

"Indeed." Veterinari rubbed his face. Vimes noticed that his hand shook slightly. "Believe it or not, Sir Samuel, I have a lot of affection for your wife. I am just as concerned for her welfare as you."

Vimes said nothing.

"I am not the enemy, Vimes," he said sharply.

 _No, you're just a twisty bugger who'll keep his own counsel until it suits him_ , Vimes thought in the privacy of his own head.

"I can assure you Sir Samuel, everything will be done to find Lady Sybil, unharmed and as quickly as possible. You have my leave to employ whatever methods you feel necessary to facilitate her speedy return."

Vimes nodded. "The Guilds...?"

"Assure me they know of no contract or job regarding Lady Sybil."

Vimes nodded again. He hadn't expected otherwise.

"Do not let me detain you."

As Vimes turned around, Veterinari called after him.

"Every story has a beginning, Vimes."

Vimes stared at him for a moment before nodding and leaving the office, Veterinari seated solemnly behind his desk, behind his piles of paper, organising the city.

_What the hell did that mean?_

* * *


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Sybil's captors...

_**Pressure Point** _

_**Chapter 3** _

_**Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot….** _

It was dark. It was always dark, confusing her senses, blinding her to her immediate environment and unable to tell how much time had passed. Even the famous toll of bells that heralded each hour across the city was muffled. A brief struggle indicated her hands were bound, and bound by someone who knew what they were doing, the same applied for her ankles. The net result was some sore and chafed skin. She cursed into the gloom, an expletive that 'Mad Jack' Ramkin would shed tears of pride over if he had heard his descendent. An exceptionally foul tasting gag muffled her voice and she cursed some more. Her thoughts returned to Sam. He would be going demented, she knew.  _ **Sam**_. Blinking back her tears of fear, she summoned all of her strength. She wouldn't let him down. Sinking back against the rough stone floor, Sybil did the only thing she could. Wait.

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

"How long are we gunna 'ave her 'ere?" A shadowy figure took a drag on his cigarette, blowing the vile smelling smoke towards the ceiling of the small room.

"'Till we get what's due," the room's other occupant smiled crookedly, the candlelight flickering over his uneven teeth.

"And what's that?" The cigarette smoker fiddled idly with his smoke.

"Retribution."

The other man stood up.

"We should see to our guest," he smiled slowly. "She may be awake."

The man smoking the cigarette dropped the dogend onto the floor, stubbing it out with an iron-capped boot and smirked.

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

The noise of bolts being pulled back and a door opening jerked Lady Ramkin into wakefulness. Her shoulders ached with her arms being forced back into an unnatural position and her hips were complaining with her ankles being bound. The cold of the stone floor and wall had seeped into her very being and she shivered. Her shawl had disappeared, leaving her clad only in a thin summer dress.

Heavy footsteps drew near and the rustle of clothing indicated her captors had entered the room.

A bright light was turned on and the beam directed at her, ensuring the captors remained in the shadows whilst she was dazzled by the light. Lady Ramkin turned her head away, the light too painful to look at, as stars danced before her eyes.

"So this is the  _Lady_ ," a deep voice sneered with drawling emphasis on the word 'Lady'. This was a voice that would cheerfully sell his own grandmother, a voice that carried knives in the darkness and dripped with malevolent evil.

"Bit of a come down for you, ain't it?"

Lady Ramkin said nothing. A ringing slap echoed in the gloom.

"You answer me when I speak to you,  _Lady_."

Lady Ramkin's head snapped back and connected with a sickening thud to the wall behind. As her head dropped forwards, blood trickled slowly down her neck and seeped into the delicate neckline of her dress.

"Sorry to have to cut our little chat short," the malevolent voice told the unconscious woman.

"But don't worry," he grinned at his companion. "We'll be back."

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

Sam Vimes was seated behind his desk at Pseudopolis Yard, staring unseeingly at the piles of paper that adorned it. He knew that he was only there to prevent himself from going mad, to give himself a groove to work in and give the semblence of normality.

Earlier they had accosted Cumbling Michael as the only known witness to Lady Sybil's arrival in Sator Square. By 'they' he meant Carrot. Not many people could avoid Carrot. Cumbling Michael hadn't had much to add to his story. Lady Sybil had disappeared into the morning crowd on her errand and had not returned. The errand had turned out to be visiting a recently rehomed dragon from the Sunshine Sanctuary, but the new owner had never seen Lady Sybil that morning and had been decidedly put out at Lady Sybil's non-arrival. This piece of news narrowed Lady Sybil's movements, Vimes knew. So that put her disappearance somewhere between leaving her coach and the proud new dragon owner, residing at Hattie's Hats, a self employed milliner. What Vimes didn't believe was that no one saw anything. Sator Square was  _always_ full of people and activity, someone must have seen  _something_ , but he was damned if he knew how to track them down.

Fred had managed to get a list of the regular stall holders and was methodically working through them to see whether they had seen anything. Vimes allowed himself a small smile of resignation - it made his face hurt. Slow and steady, that was Fred.

Unbidden, Vimes felt his right hand begin its treacherous journey down to his bottom desk drawer.

 _No!_  He snatched his hand away.  _If you start down that road again, you'll be in real trouble_ , he told himself. _Not just from Sybil, but from Carrot, Fred, Nobby, Willikins...gods the list'd be endless. Not to mention giving people like Rust the satisfaction of thinking they've been proven right about you._

A knock at his office door startled him out of his reverie.

"Sir?" The faintly wheezing voice of Fred Colon drifted through the woodwork.

"What is it Fred?" Vimes ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing that the fingers in his hair were Sybil's and not his own.  _When she ran her fingers through his hair, they were...he was...she..._ he stopped himself. Not only would he not be fit to be seen in public, but he needed to be fully alert. But gods, his body ached to be near her.

"Bought you a coffee, Sir," Fred opened the door and crossed the room, placing the coffee cup carefully upon Vimes' desk. Vimes eyed his Sergeant suspiciously. After years and years of working together, Vimes knew Fred inside out, and vice-versa. That, and the fact that Fred was an open book. One that didn't even need text, just big pictures.

"What is it, Fred?" Vimes asked wearily, taking a gulp of the scalding liquid gratefully.

"It's nothing, Sir," Fred said hurriedly. "Nothing at all..." he backed away, groping for something to say. "I should get back to...to...to the resport, yeah, the report..." His questing hand found the doorknob behind hind him.

"Fred, tell me what it is right  _now_ or I will personally see to it that you have an uninterrupted interview with his Lordship." Vimes smiled nastily as he saw Fred's ruddy face drain of colour.

"Er..."

"Fred!"

"Um, it was Carrot, Sir. You know he'd been talkin' to Cumbling Michael and a few of the other beggars, Sidney Lopsides, Fole Ole Ron and the like," Fred shifted uncomfortably.  _I shouldn't have to do this_ , he told himself. Vimes nodded impatiently as he lifted the coffee cup again.

"Well, people are talking..." Fred raised agonised eyes to Vimes' face as he saw the warning signs. Not a muscle flickered.

"What are they saying?" Vimes's voice was deathly quiet.

"Um...that you had summat to do with her Ladyship going missing, like..." Fred wrung his hands together in fear.

Vimes stared straight ahead. His face could have been carved from stone. The only sign of movement was a flickering around his jaw that indicated his teeth were being ground together under great stress.

"You don't want to listen to it, Sir," Fred tried. "You know what people are like."

With great effort, Vimes refrained from shouting at Fred. The trouble was that Fred was a perfect barometer for the average man on the street, because that's exactly what he was. If that's what the opinion was, then it was the opinion of most of the city. Half were the average man, like Fred, who weren't too bright and believed anything the man in the pub said, the other half were men like Rust who thought he was a common, thief-taking upstart who married a rich spinster to get at her money. How perfect for them, then, that Sybil suddenly disappeared. But Vimes knew, knew deep inside, that the disappearance wasn't to do with Sybil herself. He couldn't explain why, but he knew that it was to do with  _him_. It was a calculated crime, a crime designed to cause maximum distress. It was  _personal_.

"Get out, Fred." Vimes snapped and turned his chair to look out of the window, as the door closed behind Fred.

 _"Every story has a beginning, Vimes."_ Veterinari's comment went through his mind again.  _What story? What the bloody hell did that mean? Veterinari knows more than he's told me, I know he does, or why would he throw out a line like that? How far back do I need to go to work it out?_

What he really, really needed was a drink.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stakes rise...

_**Pressure Point** _

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…._

* * *

_** Chapter 4 ** _

* * *

His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes sat like a statue, immovable, and just as cold, staring straight ahead down the empty dining table, at his wife's empty place. Around him the servants milled about, going about their daily routine. After all, what else could they do? Her Ladyship might not be here, but His Lordship was. So breakfast got served as normal, despite Vimes not touching his plate of bacon and egg, surviving solely on strong black coffee and cigars. His already lean face was now beginning to look haunted and gaunt, shadows under his eyes betrayed the lack of sleep. No one, looking at Vimes now, could deny that without Sybil he was a shadow of his former self.

Wordlessly, Willikins entered and handed Vimes the morning post. On the top of the pile was a small padded envelope, bearing his name only - no address, no other marking. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his hand shook.  _Oh gods, no it can't be...it's from whoever has Sybil, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods..._

With trembling fingers he lifted the packet. For some reason he had expected it to be heavier than it was; it was surprisingly light. Vimes held the packet up and stared intently at it, trying to put off the awful moment when he would have to confront his fears and Sybil's absence become irrefutable and painful reality. At the moment, with nothing tangible to hold onto he could almost, almost, convince himself she had gone out for a long walk, or gone to a dragon show, or visiting friends. With the packet sitting accusingly in his fingers, there would be proof. Proof she was missing. Proof some bastard had taken her. Proof she wasn't here.

Vimes squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his suddenly erratic breathing. He really didn't think he could bear to do it.  _Wait_... Vimes summoned Willikins. Scribbling a hasty note, the butler took the message from Vimes with a wordless nod.

Half an hour later there was a frantic knock on the door and Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was ushered in, out of breath, by Willikins.

"I got your clacks, Sir," she panted. "I came as quick as I could!"

"I want you to check this envelope, Littlebottom." Vimes waved at the package on the dining table, sitting by his coffee cup.

"Um, OK Sir." She paused. "What for?"

" _I_  don't know! That's why  _you're_  here!" Vimes shouted. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I think...er...I think it might...it might have come from whoever has Sybil..." his voice trailed off. Littlebottom picked the parcel up nervously.

"I want you doing your tests or whatever it is you do,  _here_ , not at the Yard. This is confidential."

"Right Sir. I bought my kit with me." Littlebottom breathed a sigh of relief. She had been wondering where she should go. She focused on the package, aware of Vimes' intense gaze on her. She swallowed nervously, the responsibility of what she was doing was making her feel slightly panicky. The parcel could contain anything.

"First of all Sir, i'm going to see what the outside of the envelope has been in contact with, the type of ink used, the composition of the paper used to make the envelope. Then, er, i'm going to have to, um, well, i'll have to open it."

It was only because Vimes was standing so close that she saw the flash of naked pain flit unguarded across his usually closed face. Cheery looked back down, embarrassed. She wished she hadn't seen that look. It made him seem human,  _vulnerable_. She was left in no doubt how much Vimes was hurting, how much Sybil meant to him. In her own way, Sybil was loved even more than Carrot. Her all encompassing warmth and good humour made people feel good about themselves, her kindness and ability to see the good in people made them want to be what she believed they could be. People wanted to be near Sybil. And now, the woman who had never had an enemy in her life, who had been brought up to listen, had disappeared. Cheery shook her head. What she  _could_  do was do her job. She only hoped it would give the Commander something positive to go on - she dreaded to think of the alternative.

She began to unpack her portable alchemy kit. "Sir," she began. At Vimes' look she quailed. "This might take a little time," she began. Vimes nodded.

"Call me as soon as you have something." He turned on his heel and left the room. His whole demeanour had changed. He seemed to be turning in on himself. Always careering through the other side of cynical, he was becoming more taciturn and morose. Understandable given the circumstances, but Cheery hoped like hell something gave soon.

* * *

Lady Sybil groaned as she felt her head explode with pain. Fluttering open her eyes she was momentarily blinded by the bright light still trained upon her and the roughness of the wall behind her told her that she was still in the same place as before. As her eyes became more accustomed to the light she could make out two figures watching her. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke drifted over and caught in her throat.

" _Our Lady_  has decided to join us again," one of the men sneered as he walked slowly across the darkened room. "Don't get any clever ideas,  _Lady_ , you're not that valuable to me. You're only alive cos I get more for you that way."

He was standing close enough that Lady Sybil could make out the dark hair and wiry build of the man. She had learned enough from Sam to read the non-verbal communication, the things people said in between sentences. She could see that this man would kill her as soon as have a cup of coffee, just because he wanted to. He killed for sport, because he liked it - her life was worthless to him. In short, she had no bargaining power.

"Your husband should be getting worried now, don't you think Don?" The other man smirked as he joined his colleague. Slightly thicker set, he stared contemptuously at Sybil.

"The bloodstains should work him up a treat," he took a deep drag on his roll-up. "Might send a finger next.." he stared appraisingly at Sybil. The first man drew a finger across his neck. Sybil looked down and saw that the lace neckline of her dress was missing - the  _bloodstained_  neckline. Her headache doubled in its throbbing intensity. Sam would be going demented. She closed her eyes as the full enormity of her situation settled upon her. The second man sauntered over to her. He hooked a finger through the delicate chain of the necklace she was wearing and roughly pulled. "Message number 2," he whispered in her ear. Reaching behind her he pulled off her wedding rings ignoring her whimper of pain as her fingers dislocated.

"Why are you doing this?" She whispered. "What have i done?" The first man pursed his lips in cold amusement. He leaned closer so his face was inches away from Sybil's and blew the evil smelling cigarette smoke into her face.

"Your delightful husband,  _my Lady_ , well, he'll pay handsomely for you. Even with bits missing. But i'm not making it too easy. He has to pay." He grasped the hair at the back of her head and pulled her head back exposing her neck. A wetness travelled down her neck as her captor licked the length of her neck. She recoiled in horror at the sensation and trembled as the fear gripped her again. He pulled back to whisper into her ear.

"Oh yes. I'm gonna make him pay."

* * *

Cheery Littlebottom shook with excitement. She was holding the long awaited results from the mysterious package delivered to the Commander and she was eager to share her news. Scrambling to her feet, Cheery ran out of the dining hall - where she had been politely ignored by the Commander's staff - searching for him. A resounding bellow from further down the hall made her turn suddenly and head towards one of the drawing rooms. She found Vimes standing, bristling furiously, holding that morning's edition of  _The Times._  A muscle twitching in his jaw told her of the tension and fury he was trying to keep contained.

She cautiously peered around him at the offending article and couldn't contain her own gasp of astonishment.

" ** _Duchess of Ankh missing - feared kidnapped"_**

**_'Nobles ask: Where is the Watch?'_ **

" _Where is the Watch?_ " Vimes screamed. "Who tattled to them? Fetch me de Worde, I'm going to bloody kill him!"

He sank into a chair next to the fireplace, suddenly looking tired and careworn. His voice trailed off as he gave a heartfelt groan. "Now it's going to be even harder..."

Littlebottom fiddled with the paper she was holding. Vimes opened one eye and trained it on her. "Well?"

The dwarf coughed nervously. "Well, Sir, the ink used didn't yield anything of use, the composition was the same as most ink in everyday use..." Vimes groaned and placed his hand over his eyes.

Undaunted, Cheery ploughed on. Glancing down at her list, she continued.

"The envelope is a standard type, sold throughout the city,  _but_ ," she stressed over Vimes' reactive sigh, "what  _was_  interesting was the analysis of the outside of the envelope."

Vimes took his hand away from his mouth and narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. "Go on," he said sharply.

"Well, who ever handled the envelope either worked with or lived around a lot of paint."

Vimes stared at her. "Paint?" He echoed blankly.

"Well," Cheery amended, "whitewash, specifically, you can tell because the shape of the crystalline structure..."

"Yes, thank you I don't need the details," Vimes interrupted hastily. "Anything else?"

Cheery looked wretched. "I, um, opened the envelope, Sir. Whitewash residue was found in the envelope as well as outside, so it wasn't just someone handling it, if you know what I mean."

Vimes remained silent. A truly horrifying possibility was unfurling in his mind.

Cheery continued. "The envelope contained, um, a piece of lace, it looked like it was taken from a piece of clothing..." She raised agonised eyes to Vimes. "It's stained with blood, Sir."

Vimes gave a terse nod. By his side his fists curled and uncurled, the tension in his frame finding anyway out it could.  _Whitewash...gods...no, please no..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief chapter 5 moves the story along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, at times this story may seem a bit dark. Being taken captive is rarely a pleasant experience, and the people who do it are usually out to cause maximum distress. This is why Lady Sybil is portrayed as having upsetting experiences.  
> Plus, I do actually think Sam would feel like the stuffing had been knocked out of him if anything happened to Sybil. She is his "one warm, beautiful thing", if you like. Unlike Carrot, he cannot actually put into practice "personal isn't the same as important." {Carrot baffled him in Jingo.}

**_Pressure Point Chapter 5_ **

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…_

 

* * *

Sam Vimes stared unseeingly at the piece of paper Cheery had handed him bearing the results of her experiments. _Whitewash_ , he thought.  _There's only one place_... Unbidden, Vetinari's words echoed in his head.  _Every story has a beginning. So where's yours Sam? The answer isn't here, it's_ _ **there**_ _. Somewhere,_ _ **there**_ _._

* * *

Lady Sybil took a deep breath of the increasingly stuffy and noxious air to try to calm herself. Her finger ached from the rough removal of her rings and there was a friction burn around her neck from the snapping of her necklace. She gulped again to try to stop her heart from racing. Sam  _would_  find her, she knew. The ropes bit into the tender skin of her wrist, already chafed they were starting to bleed and her legs were cramping painfully. Hating herself for feeling weak she twisted painfully and lay down on the freezing concrete to try to relieve the pressure on her legs.

"Aw, look Don," came an all too familiar sneer as the bright light was once more switched on. "A regular sleeping beauty, we've got here." Lady Sybil blinked back the reactive tears that were stinging her eyes, but not quick enough. A traitorous tear snaked down her cheek, loudly proclaiming her weakness with its glistening track. She looked down, afraid to see the contempt, the scorn, the coldness, the hate.

"What's the matter?" Came the cruel voice, too near,  _too near_. Her heart sped up in panic, she could just make out the man's boots in her peripheral vision. "Don't you like our company?  _Lady_? Or should I call you Lady Vimes? Or maybe-" a chuckle, "-Duchess of Ankh?"  
"We're in exalted company, Don." The man sniggered.

"Your husband should have his second parcel by now," the man known as Don said, in a deceptively conversational tone. Both men chuckled.  
"I think it's time to up the ante, don't you?"

* * *

The Commander sat at his desk in Pseudopolis Yard, to all intents and purposes looking engrossed in the paperwork that adorned his infamously untidy desk. Closer examination revealed a different story. If an observer watched his hands, they would see the fine tremor that permanently accompanied him. Already a lean man, scrutiny of the lines around his eyes would reveal deepening of the crow's feet and the gaunt look of a man who has lost weight too quickly. Time and motion studies would reveal the continual presence of black coffee and Pantweeds cigars. What he was, in actual fact, doing, was staring very hard at an innocuous looking parcel that had been handed to him by an apologetic looking desk Sergeant who had found it his unhappy lot in life to deliver a suspect parcel to his fearsome Commander.

 _It looks like the previous one,_  his unconscious mind babbled. He didn't even shout for Littlebottom. Not even Angua. He knew without subjecting the contents to even a rudimentary analysis that the cacophany of smells would render Angua's input negligible. Images of the lace from the previous package swam in front of his mind's eye. The  _bloodstained_ lace. He gritted his teeth. If it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to find these bastards and they were going to _pay_. Preferably with Detritus and a dark alley. He took a deep breath and reached out a shaking hand, picking up the slim, white package. With his other hand, he stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled open the flap. The parcel weighed slightly more than the other one. He frowned and tipped out the contents onto his desk. The thunk and dull tinkle of metal took him by surprise and his mouth dropped open in unadulterated shock as he saw the spinning objects in front of him. Only the feel of his cigar burning through his britches brought him back to his senses. Cursing, he snatched his cigar up and rubbed his thigh. He stared at the objects in front of him and felt his vision swim as raw, naked emotion overwhelmed him.

A dainty gold chain, bearing a locket. Vimes knew it was engraved with their wedding date. The other two items... well, they were a direct stab in the heart. They were Sybil's wedding rings.

* * *

"Now, you see, you've got a choice." Don said, idly leaning against the wall next to Lady Sybil and taking a drag of a dog end Nobby would be proud of.

"You can make it easy, or you can make it difficult. I don't care either way." He gave a feral grin. "I get what I want either way you choose. It's less... _messy_ , if you choose the easy way." He nodded at the other man who returned with a few sheets of paper. "So what you're gonna do is, you're gonna write a few letters. 'S why you've still got fingers."

The other man leaned forward. "Won't that be nice?"

* * *

**_Comments are always appreciated._ **


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, at times this story may seem a bit dark. Being taken captive is rarely a pleasant experience, and the people who do it are usually out to cause maximum distress. This is why Lady Sybil is portrayed as having upsetting experiences.  
> Plus, I do actually think Sam would feel like the stuffing had been knocked out of him if anything happened to Sybil. She is his "one warm, beautiful thing", if you like. Unlike Carrot, he cannot actually put into practice "personal isn't the same as important." {Carrot baffled him in Jingo.}
> 
> Another point is that I am taking considerable liberties with the Guild of Merchants and their scope and manner of operation. For the purposes of this story anyone selling goods must be a member of the Guild of Merchants and Traders, and the head is Antimony Parker. Of course, any errors are entirely my own, as is Pelmet Ruse.

_**Pressure Point Chapter 6** _

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…_

* * *

 

The Patrician steepled his fingers and stared speculatively over them at the man on the other side of his desk. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, allowing the weighted silence to elongate. The other man did not flinch. Vetinari sighed to himself. Of course he wouldn't flinch, the man never did.

"Sir Samuel, do you intend to update me on your activities or must I make an educated guess?"

"Sir?"

Vimes stared impassively just to the side of the Patrician's right ear, at a spot on the wall behind. It was a classic policeman's stare, and one Vimes could keep up for hours if necessary.

"I am choosing to believe that you understood that question, Vimes."

"Sir?"

"It was rhetorical, Vimes."

"Sir?"

"If you answer another question with 'Sir?' it will go very hard for you."

"Couldn't say, Sir."

The Patrician leaned back in his chair. He couldn't explain satisfactorily, even to himself, why Vimes fascinated him. He picked up a piece of paper on his desk and sat forward again.

"At our last meeting, I believe I gave you leave to employ whatever methods you felt would be necessary to facilitate the speedy return of the Duchess. Perhaps you would be kind enough to appraise me of recent events."

Vetinari narrowed his eyes as he watched the other man's face. Vimes' countenance had changed markedly since their last meeting, of that the Patrician was in no doubt. He was leaner, edgier .

"Sir. We, that is,  _I_ , received 2 parcels that I believe are from the, uh, kidnappers." Vimes paused as he struggled to keep his composure.

Vetinari said nothing as he watched the other man.

"The first one," Vimes continued, "I gave to Corporal Littlebottom – our alchemy expert – to examine." Vimes paused again. He took a deep breath and continued. "There was a lace collar in the envelope that had come from Sybil's dress. It was blood stained." Vimes' fists were balled by his sides. "There was nothing else with it. Corporal Littlebottom examined the envelope and what it  _did_ contain was trace residue of whitewash paint."

The silence between the two men stretched out further.

"The second envelope was delivered not to our house, but to the Yard yesterday. One of the desk Sergeants brought it up to my office. Again a plain envelope, but inside..." Vimes' voice trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment and continued. "Inside was a gold locket that I gave to Sybil on our wedding day, and her wedding rings. There was nothing else."

Vimes flicked his gaze to the silent tyrant in front of him.

"Sir." He said, after a pause.

"Nothing in the second envelope?" Vetinari asked eventually.

"I'd put money on it being exactly the same, Sir."

"These tell us so much, yet so little," Vetinari mused as he got out of his chair and looked out of the window at the overcast sky.

"It tells  _me_  that someone is playing games with me, Sir," Vimes said, feeling the first flashes of anger.

"And the stall holders in Sator Square?"

"Uh, Fred Colon is taking statements as we speak," Vimes replied. "But there doesn't seem to be much there. I might get him and Nobby to pay a visit to the Guild of Merchants."

Vetinari nodded. "Leave no stone unturned, Vimes, and no avenue unexplored." Vetinari strode back over to his desk and sat down. "There is unrest in the city, Sir Samuel. Do not forget your position."

"Unrest? Sir?"

Vetinari smiled slightly. "You forget, Sir Samuel, just where you are in the chain of command. Don't lose sight of the bigger picture in this crime against your wife."

Vimes gaped, before remembering where he was and hastily closing his mouth. His senses, which had been perpetually scattered since Sybil's disappearance, showed no sign of regrouping any time soon.

* * *

Vimes returned to the Yard in a foul mood.  _Vetinari's at it again_ , he snarled to himself as he kicked open the door to his office and threw himself into his chair. Still, on the bright side no more mystery parcels. He shuddered and wondered what the hell they were trying to tell him – aside from painfully and cruelly holding his wife.

_...You forget, Sir Samuel, just where you are in the chain of command. Don't lose sight of the bigger picture in this crime against your wife..._

_How_ _**can** _ _I forget? The whole damned city tells me constantly – half try to ignore my very existence, the other half are just waiting to find me crawling inside a bottle of Jimkin Bearhuggers._

_Make a list...sort out your thoughts...You used to do that remember? When the world was swimming out of focus and you were out of Bearhuggers and Nobby had raided the petty cash and all you had were a handful of IOUs..._

Sighing, Vimes pulled his desk pad towards him and settled down. Tapping his pencil against his chin, he attempted to sift through the tumultuous events of the last few days.

_Itym: Sybil dysappears in Sator Square. Noe one sees anything unusual._

Vimes stared at that statement. He was trying his level best to rise above the pure gut-wrenching pain of having to write that statement down, but for the moment it was the latter part that was catching his eye.  _No one saw anything_. Everyone sees _something_  – they just might not realise the import of what they had seen, but this was an utter blank. This just didn't happen. He put a star by that item.

_Itym: Sybil last seen at 11am by Cumbling Michael, ae beggar._

_Itym: Sybil's last knowne appointment 11am at Hattie's Hats (mylliner)_

_Itym: First parcel contayning lace collar – bloodstained and whitewash_

_Itym: Second parcel – locket and wedding rings_

_Itym: 'Every story has ae begynning'_

_Itym: 'Don't lose syght of thee big picture'_

Vimes stared at his list. It wasn't making any more sense written down than it did up in his head. If he wasn't much mistaken, Vetinari seemed to be implying this city-wide unrest was somehow... _pertinent?_ So, what would this be? A political crime?  _But it can't be_ , Vimes argued with himself. Lady Sybil herself was already a political creature well before Vimes had even met her, by virtue of her lineage and family. She knew all of the oldest and richest families not only of Ankh-Morpork, but stretching across the Sto Plains. That couldn't be the reason. Nothing about Sybil had changed, certainly not to warrant a brutal crime of this magnitude.

 _Anyway_ , Vimes switched tack,  _what unrest? Why weren't the Watch informed?_ Knowing Vetinari, it could be absolutely _anything_. Vimes glowered down at his list again, and patted his pockets searching for his cigar case. Lighting his cigar, he snatched up his list and headed for the Watch room below with sudden purpose.

"Morning, Sir," Captain Carrot saluted as Vimes descended the stairs, puffing on his cigar.

"Morning, Captain." Vimes nodded as he walked to the end of the room. "Carrot, come here please."

He stuck his list on the wall and looked at his Captain.

"These are the main points, Captain."

Carrot peered attentively at the paper on the wall.

"I want any clue, any new information _, anything at all_ , that is of relevance to the case, no matter how small, to be added to this wall."

"OK, Sir," Carrot said doubtfully.

"It's so we have all of the information in one place, Captain," Vimes explained patiently. "It means we can visually see any relationships with the evidence."

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Carrot's open, honest face.

"Oh, I see!" Carrot brightened. "That's an excellent idea, Sir!"

"I know. It's one of mine." Vimes opened his cigar case and extricated another cigar. "OK, tell the man what to do with this," he waved his hand at the wall behind him.

"Where are you going, Sir?" Carrot called after Vimes' retreating back.

"Guild of Merchants, and Fred's coming with me," Vimes added to the surprised Sergeant as he passed the front desk. "I want some answers!"

* * *

In her cramped, dark prison Lady Sybil stared down at the pieces of paper placed in front of her. She raised fearful eyes to the shadowy figures of her captors.

"I won't do it," she whispered. "I won't do it..."

"But Duchess, you will. Believe me, you _will_."

* * *

Antimony Parker, Head of the Guild of Merchants and Traders stared in astonishment at his second in command, Pelmet Ruse.

"Commander Vimes? Is here?"

Ruse nodded and pulled worriedly at the lace cuff on his sleeve. Antimony Parker rearranged his belt around a stomach that could only be called  _ample_ , in his claret coloured velvet tunic – its comedic value was enhanced by a pair of very skinny legs encased in white doublet and hose. Ruse, by contrast was tall and thin, with a pinched, pale face. Antimony blew his breath out worriedly, his mouth twitching behind a beard that looked as if he had been savaged by a hedgehog.

"Well, we'd better see what the blasted man wants," he grumbled. "He'll never go away, otherwise."

Antimony, closely followed by Pelmet Ruse, entered the antechamber by the main door of the Guild headquarters a few minutes later.

Striding forward, Antimony extended his hand as he greeted the Watchmen.

"Ah, Commander Vimes, allow me to pass on my deepest condolences regarding Her Ladyship. How may we be of assistance to you?"

Commander Vimes pointedly ignored Antimony's outstretched hand.

"This is Sergeant Colon. He has been taking statements from some of your Guild members in Sator Square, and would you believe that not one person had anything of any use to say?" Vimes did not mince his words. He had already decided that he disliked Antimony Parker intensely.

"Well, busy time, surely not everyone –"

" _Exactly_! That's just what I thought!" Vimes beamed manically at Antimony. "All those people, surely at least one person from the thousands that either work there or make their way through there every day? Well, would you believe it, Antimony, that  _no one saw anything_." Vimes lowered his voice to a growl. "My wife is one of the most high profile and recognisable people in this whole damned city."

Antimony Parker paled. Pelmet Ruse was standing by the wall conferring quietly but urgently with a colleague.

"And then I thought, well, what's the common denominator here, and would you know...they are  _all members of the Guild_. The Patrician does like to keep up to date lists, doesn't he? So, Antimony, how about explaining why none of your Guild members apparently saw the most popular woman in Ankh-Morpork disappear on a harmless errand?"

 _I shouldn't have to take this_ , Antimony thought. But somehow the words dissolved when he saw Vimes' grin, which was about as funny as a lit fuse.

"Guild members are, of course, encouraged to do their civic duty, Sir Samuel. I cannot be held responsible if no one saw the alleged disappearance."

"Alleged?!"

"Well, is there evidence of a kidnap? She may have gone of her own –"

"Don't do it, Mister Vimes!" Sergeant Colon, with great presence of mind, had stepped forward and was using his bulk to prevent the Commander from physically assaulting Antimony Parker.

Levelling a stare like a basilisk, Vimes growled, "We're coming back with a warrant to pull this place apart. I'm not done with you, Mr. Parker."

Storming out into the street outside, Vimes pulled out a cigar and took a deep drag. He was getting closer, he could  _feel_ it. To what, he didn't know, but he was getting closer. The trouble was, as he got closer, the mystery deepened. He closed his eyes as he leaned against the outer wall and thought of Sybil. The knife turned, deep inside. The bastards would pay.

* * *

_**Comments would be greatly appreciated** _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, at times this story may seem a bit dark. Being taken captive is rarely a pleasant experience, and the people who do it are usually out to cause maximum distress. This is why Lady Sybil is portrayed as having upsetting experiences.  
> Plus, I do actually think Sam would feel like the stuffing had been knocked out of him if anything happened to Sybil. She is his "one warm, beautiful thing", if you like. Unlike Carrot, he cannot actually put into practice "personal isn't the same as important." {Carrot baffled him in Jingo.}

**_Pressure Point Chapter 7_ **

_Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot…_

* * *

_We have slightly more of Vetinari in this chapter._

**_Chapter 7_ **

Lord Vetinari watched his last visitor of the day leave his office, dispassionately noting the haste as the Head Thief neared the office door. As the door closed behind the man, Lord Vetinari stood up behind his desk and smoothed down his black robes, striding elegantly towards one of the large windows. He stared out unseeingly over the familiar city-scape, his face betraying nothing of the thoughts going through his mind.

Vimes was, without a doubt, going out of his mind. In Lord Vetinari's view, a properly angry Vimes was the most useful sort of Vimes. Hopefully the man should be building up a proper head of steam by now. If Vimes didn't start punching the wall again soon,Vetinari feared he may have to rethink his strategy. But, if he had calculated correctly (as, of course, he knew he had) then any time now, Vimes would reach his breaking point. Pressure can be handled in so many  _interesting_ ways, and Vetinari considered himself an expert judge at just when to tip the scales. Any minute now. Vetinari stroked his neat little beard. Yes, it was about to get interesting.

The door opened noiselessly and Vetinari's clerk, Drumknott, entered. With all of the charisma of a mouldy sandwich, he approached Vetinari's desk carefully depositing a fresh sheaf of papers and retrieving another neat pile.

Feeling emboldened by his lordship's demeanour, Drumknott ventured to comment.

"A good meeting, my lord?"

Vetinari smirked, unknown to Drumknott, as he continued to gaze unseeingly out of the window. He rocked forwards slightly as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"As expected, Drumknott."

"Any news from Vimes, my lord?" Drumknott busied himself tidying the already neat pile of paper in his arms.

Vetinari turned from his careful contemplation of the cityscape and walked back to his desk, his black robe kicking out in front of him. He enjoyed wearing his long robes, as opposed to breeches or shorter styles. He was well aware of the psychological power a tall man could exert – if you factored in the elegance that assassin's training furnished you with, as well as a love of the colour black, not to mention his thin physique which he nurtured through extreme frugality – you were already well ahead of the game. Appearances counted.

"Tell me, Drumknott. What would you do if your wife disappeared?"

Vetinari started sifting through the fresh papers on his desk, looking for all the world as if he was utterly engrossed in his task.

If Drumknott was surprised by Vetinari's question, he didn't show it. Not a muscle moved on the slightly pasty face of the clerk as he smoothly replied.

"I'm not married, my lord."

"Hmmm?" Vetinari looked back at his clerk. "Hypothetically, then," he said, moving a couple of pages to another, identical looking, pile.

"Well, my lord, I think I would be tearing the city apart to find her."

Drumknott exited just as noiselessly as he had entered. Vetinari steepled his fingers as he rested his mouth against them, staring at the door long after his clerk had left.

"Wouldn't we all," he murmured. Then, because he was Lord Vetinari, he became engrossed in his new pile of papers.

After a while his sensitive hearing picked up what appeared to be the latter stages of an ongoing argument.

"Mr de Worde,  _please_! You  _cannot_  just see his lordship unannounced!" Drumknott's voice had risen slightly and taken on a tremulous quality as it was wont to do when he was agitated.

"I only want a minute of his lordship's time," de Worde replied firmly, undoubtedly with his blasted notebook clutched firmly in hand.

Vetinari stood, gaze dropping for just a fraction of a second to a smaller piece of paper on his desk, as the door to his office burst open.

"My lord," Drumknott gasped out of breath, "I apologise for this intrusion, but Mr de Worde  _insisted_  on an audience with you!"

Vetinari waved his hand. "Quite alright Drumknott," he nodded as the clerk exited, soundlessly closing the door behind him.

As the door closed, Vetinari turned icy blue eyes upon the silent newcomer. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch. He reached out long, pale fingers, almost elegant, and picked up his quill, beginning to initial some documents on his desk. He heard the telltale rustle of fabric as the room's other occupant fidgeted uneasily.

"What  _is_  it, Mr de Worde, that apparently could not wait until a civil time of day?"

De Worde coughed. "Well, Sir, I was wondering whether any progress has been made regarding the Duchess, Sir?"

Vetinari raised a slender eyebrow. "I take it you have not yet approached Sir Samuel, if you are here?"

de Worde had the grace to blush.

"Er, well, I have," he rallied. "He, er, he hit me." He raised his chin defiantly.

Vetinari covered his mouth slightly with the hand that wasn't holding the quill.

"I see."

"So..." de Worde prompted, notebook cocked.

"What is it you  _want_ , Mr de Worde?"

"The latest information."

Vetinari's gaze slid across his desk to the innocuous looking piece of paper. This did not go unnoticed by de Worde. He stepped closer, emboldened, licking suddenly dry lips.

"Have  _you_  received one too?" he asked quietly.

Vetinari's face remained impassive. The silence lengthened, taking on a subtle texture and sucking all noise into it like a vortex. de Worde had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that the proverbial was about to hit the fan. He also had a mad compulsion to try to fill the suddenly busy silence.

"I mean," he stammered, "I got one too, a letter I mean, well, a kind of letter, from the Duchess, apparently..."

Vetinari continued aggressively listening.

de Worde continued trying to fill the gap.

"I just thought that you...well, if anyone is going to be sent a letter it would be  _you_ , Sir, I mean, you're the Patrician, so, I just thought others might have one too..." de Worde finally listened to self preservation and trailed off.

"Do you have your letter?" Vetinari ignored the younger man's plea for information and extended his hand, taking a crumpled piece of parchment from de Worde's shaking hand.

Vetinari took a sharp intake of breath.

_Your Grace_

_We hear that you are the richest man in the city. How much do you value your wife?_

_Arrange for AM$500,000 to be withdrawn and wait for further instructions._

_If you fail to do this -_

At this point the ink smudged and there were several shaky lines as if the letter writer had tried to avoid continuing -

_You won't be seeing her again._

_Although, you may see parts of her._

Vetinari stared at the parchment long after he had finished reading. It was Sybil's handwriting.

* * *

**_Comments always appreciated_ **


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam Vimes is a man with enemies. You don't get to be the second most powerful man in the greatest city on the Disc without a few people being upset. But every man has a weak spot….

**_Sybil's POV_ **

A key turning aggressively in the lock and bolts being noisily drawn back woke Sybil from the exhausted catnap she had fallen into. Time held no meaning here, no daylight filtered through and the rough brickwork was all she had to look at. She couldn't tell if she'd been here a day or a week, or even longer. She found it almost impossible to keep her eyes open, yet the bowel-twisting terror rendered her unable to sleep for any length of time. She felt nauseous through exhaustion, her head pounded dully and her eyes were sore and gritty.

Looking up she saw the chilling sight of both men approaching her, both wearing identical feral grins. Don carried a small box in one hand that instantly caught her attention.

When he was sure he had her full attention, Don slowly opened the lid.  
"Now," he said in a conversational tone, "I'm a careful man. I don't like…. _accidents_." He narrowed his eyes. "I'd hate to think that you might… _accidentally_ …make a noise." He picked up the syringe. It was full. "So, I'm sure you fully understand why I need to take steps to ensure that our little  _tete a tetes_  continue." He smirked as he advanced towards her. "Arm, please, your Ladyship," he said mockingly as he plunged the needle into her exposed and bound arm.

The sharp jab of the needle disappearing into her arm and bearing its nefarious load was the last thing she remembered before blackness engulfed her.

* * *

 ** _Meanwhile, across the City.._**.

Commander Vimes entered the squad room at Pseudopolis Yard, courtesy of much stamping feet and slamming door, and glowered at the assembled officers with a countenance blacker than Sham Harga's coffee. The more quick thinking of the assembled officers prudently found something  _really_  urgent to occupy themselves with, as Vimes' baleful gaze landed on them.

"Well?" He barked. "Don't you have anything to do?"

The assembled men simultaneously jumped and cast around frantically, several deciding that now was  _really_  a great time to go on patrol - no matter that their shift hadn't started yet or that they'd just come off duty...

"Those of you that have not removed yourselves in the next 10 seconds will be patrolling the Shades for the next month – _double shifts_  - irrespective of rank," he snarled, the curious stares making the last thread of his already frayed patience snap. A sadistic part of him that was howling for bloodthirsty vengeance was gratified to see the panic on the faces of his men. The beast inside that was waking up, that seemed poised to utterly consume him in its rage, was getting harder and harder to overrule. A small part of him wanted nothing more than to scream out his fury and pain and just forget himself, give himself over to the meting out of rough justice until he was utterly exhausted. The guarding dark would not allow that part of him to win out.

"Fred!"

"Yessir?" Sergeant Colon stood with such alacrity behind the duty officer's desk, that the chair tipped over. Swallowing hard, he ignored the chair legs that were digging painfully into his calves and stared straight ahead.

Even Colon didn't dare be anything other than a textbook dumb copper when Sam was like this.

"We're going back to the Merchant's. There's something they're not telling us and I want to know what it is."

The last part was delivered over his shoulder as he grabbed his heavy oilskin cape and headed out of the front door. Sergeant Colon hastened from behind the duty officer's desk and followed Vimes out of the door.

"So, what are you going to do, Mister Vimes?" Colon wheezed gently as he struggled to match the other man's pace.

Vimes remained silent as they made their way down Lower Broadway, the turgid waters of the river Ankh reflecting the lazy summer sunshine off its many pollutants in the distance.

What  _was_  he going to do? In truth, he had absolutely no idea. He hadn't thought much beyond marching up to the Merchant's Guild House and rattling Antimony Parker so much the man widdled himself. Another thought occurred to him – the President of the Guild was likely to be there….Sir Josiah Isme. It was almost time for the Guild's annual hobnob. More politely known as the Annual International Trade Fair, something which the Guild was extremely proud of, although all Vimes had hitherto thought of it was that it meant a lot of extra work. Merchants, sellers, tradespeople, however you wanted to think of them, poured into the city from all over the Disc, including a few nowadays from the Agatean Empire, for several days of merchantly networking, communal fleecing, shortchanging, and any other means of securing a profit that could reasonably be conducted.

Vimes just  _knew_. In some ancient policeman's senses, deep in his hindbrain, he knew the Guild was hiding something. And if it had anything to do with Sybil, Sir Josiah would be needing a new merchant to sell him a fresh set of teeth, on account of his own being handed back to him in his hat.

* * *

Over in the offices of the Ankh-Morpork _Times_ , William de Worde found himself in unfamiliar territory. He sat in what could only be called a quandary. He stared down at the piece of paper in front of him, rereading it for the thousandth time. Every time he reached the part where the ink tapered off, he shuddered. The whole note said so much, yet so little. He didn't doubt the veracity of the note – either that it was from Sybil's kidnappers, or that she herself had written it, Vetinari himself seemed convinced. Neither did William doubt that Vimes himself would be in receipt of a note – he still had the bruise on his jaw in testament to that. The violence of the man's reaction gave William his answer there.

  
He couldn't stop himself wondering exactly who else would have received one. Vetinari, and especially Vimes, could be taken as a given. But why  _him_? Aside from being able to print the note to the whole of Ankh-Morpork, of course. But anyone could have come to the offices of the  _Times_  and they would have run the story, it was the scoop of the century. So why him? Why not Saccharissa? So who else is there? William felt his skin crawl.

  
For possibly the first time ever he felt himself sympathising wholly with Vimes. He couldn't begin to imagine the man's torment. His eyes fell back to the incriminating note and he reflexively swallowed. What else was Vimes in receipt of? It was obvious that the aim was to torment Vimes, so what else had he received?

William closed his eyes. The note was enough horror for him to deal with for now, but William's problem lay in knowing what to do with this knowledge. Somewhat unusually for a journalist, William was pricked by a sense of conscience. At face value, the distribution of the notes were dynamite – news that could blow the lid off Ankh-Morpork's upper crust. However, the note was so intensely personal, so incredibly painful, so horribly horribly  _real_ , in a way that William himself couldn't quite define, that he simply couldn't bring himself to run the story.

  
What he  _could_  do, on the other hand, was assign someone to follow the Duchess of Ankh story – sworn to secrecy, but someone who could gather information independently of the Watch. Rising to his feet, William went in search of Saccharissa.

* * *

Willikins sauntered along Shamlegger Street, his pace deliberately slow, and with just the right sort of calculated insolence. He was pleasantly surprised at how easy it all was. His loose shirt flapped gently in the light summer breeze, the only immediately obvious sign of summer that managed to permeate the perpetual gloom of the Shades. Down at the end of Shamlegger Street, a small group of youths eyed him with apparent disinterest. Willikins allowed himself a small smile. He wasn't about to fall for  _that_  one. They would learn. He fingered various implements in his pocket, slipping on one of Mrs Goodbody's finest for good measure.

He turned off Shamlegger, his nonchalance unaffected, and pushed open the door of the nearest tavern. He leaned against the stained bar and ordered a pint of Winkles Old Peculiar. He breathed deeply, the stench of the foetid flea pit stirring memories. After a moment, a gust of air indicated that the door had opened once more, and a faint rustling indicated someone taking a seat.

"Are you from round here, pal?" The barman leaned on his elbow at the greasy bar. "'Cos if you're not, you're about to get the Shades welcome."

* * *

**_Comments always welcome_ **


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter devoted to poignancy. Sam’s poignancy. Some may argue that this isn’t being true to character, but I disagree. OK, none of us are going to write any of them like the great Sir Pterry, but in essence I think Sam actually feels a great deal…a lot more than he is given credit for. Part of his depth of feeling is, I believe, the reason for his dark moods, his cynicism, his despair etc etc. In my opinion he feels things *too much.* Through being slightly Knurd all the time he sees what is really there.
> 
> In this chapter, it is brought home to him again just what is missing.

Cigar smoke hung in heavy clouds above the heads of the assembled. In accordance with narrative imperative everywhere, their faces were in darkness, deep in the recesses of the comfortable chairs.   
A pregnant silence had descended, broken only by a small slurping sound as one individual took a drink.

"Are you sure it has to be this way?" Asked a comfortable armchair, eventually.

The winged upright to the left of the first chair bristled.

"You know very well it has to be this way. What else would work? You couldn't shift the man with dynamite."

A low murmur of agreement rippled around the assembled chairs.

"And did you know about...er....the connection?" asked a worried sounding Genuan Lounger.

A deep sigh emanated from the Winged Upright. Really, it thought. People want change, but when change knocks they hide behind the door. It was downright exasperating.

"No," it explained patiently. "That was pure coincidence. A happy coincidence," it added.

There was another pause in the conversation.

"Don't you worry about the Watch," it said sharply. "That's taken care of. Trust me, Vimes will not be a problem."

There was a tapping sound, then the clink of ice cubes.

"It is nearly time, gentlemen. Soon, it will all be over. I promise."

 

* * *

 

Commander Vimes sat in the dark drawing room, the faint tendrils of the snuffed out candles barely discernable in the gathering gloom. Outside the closed window he could faintly hear the cacophonous sound of the bells in the city far below heralding the hour. The slightly acrid smell of the candles permeated the air but Vimes did not move. Silently the servants removed his untouched plate of food and cleared the unused cutlery. Still the man did not twitch.  
  
As if from a great distance, he heard the front door bell chime. It couldn’t be of any importance. Nothing was, now. His mind let go of the thought like dissipating mist.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Vimes blinked. Had that been a voice…?  
  
“Sir?”  
  
The voice was more urgent.  
  
“Hnuh?” Vimes blinked again, and cleared his throat as the woolly feeling inside his head began to clear.  
  
“Sir,” Willikins stood next to him, a tall, dark shape in the gloom. “Dr. Lawn is here and wishes to see you.”  
  
Vimes sat back in his chair.  
  
“Send him away, man. Unless he can find Sybil….” Vimes tailed off, “I’m not interested.” He finished, picking up his cigar case and studiously avoiding the inscription on it.  
  
“He says it’s urgent, Sir.” Willikins stared straight ahead.  
  
“What has he said to you,” Vimes growled, as a sudden flash of unaccustomed illumination made him examine the other man’s posture.  
  
“Nothing Sir!” Willikins protested. “He hasn’t vouchsafed any information to me Sir! But he impressed upon me most emphatically the need to speak to you!”  
  
Vimes relaxed slightly as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he saw the taut features of the butler.  
  
“OK,” he said in a quieter voice. “Send him in. And light the bloody candles,” he added as an afterthought.

 

* * *

  
  
Dr Lawn was a receptive man, and it didn’t take Mrs Cake to work out the sort of mood His Grace was likely to be in. As he was ushered through the drawing room door by the Vimes’ butler, the stony features of the Duke himself were revealed, and even the hardened medic that Dr Lawn was quailed under the cold stare.  
  
“Your Grace,” Dr Lawn began in a carefully neutral voice.  
  
“Just Sir Samuel will be sufficient,” the other man interrupted. He waved to a seat opposite him. “Well? What is it that is apparently so urgent?”  
  
Dr Lawn hesitated. Doctor’s see and hear many things, and in Ankh-Morpork that wasn’t a sentence to treat lightly. But even here, with the experience that Dr Lawn had, even he found it difficult to meet the inscrutable gaze of the man opposite.  
  
“I understand that Corporal Littlebottom is your, ah, forensics officer?”  
  
Vimes narrowed his eyes. “I already know I’m not going to like where this is going, Lawn,” he ground out. “So do us both a bloody favour and out with it.” Vimes was clutching the armrests of his chair with white-knuckled hands and Lawn knew that it wasn’t through apprehension or nervousness, but through an effort to restrain the rage inside. The knowledge wasn’t making him feel any easier about his mission.  
  
“I’ll get straight to the point then, Sir.” Dr Lawn licked suddenly dry lips. “Corporal Littlebottom came to see me on a matter of some urgency a couple of days ago.” He paused. Vimes seemed to have stopped breathing.  
  
“The packet….the collar…bloodstains…?” With a dreadful premonition Vimes knew what Lawn was going to say.  
  
Dr Lawn nodded.  
  
“But why? She’s forensics, she knew it was Sybil…?”  
  
Dr Lawn licked his lips again, a nervous gesture. “She required clarification.” He glanced up at the grey face of the other man. How much more could this man take? How much more of this could *any* man take?  
“Her Grace is pregnant, Sir Samuel.” Dr Lawn looked up at Vimes. “You are to be a father.”  
  
The only sound in the suddenly silent room was the noise of Vimes hitting the carpet.

 

* * *

  
  
Vimes groggily opened his eyes. Only the restraining hand of Dr Lawn prevented him from sitting bolt upright as the memories of the last few minutes dumped their payload into his consciousness and went and hid.  
  
"Wha....how...." He began urgently. "Why didn't she *tell* me? She's forensic!"  
  
Dr Lawn sighed as he removed his hand from Vimes shoulder, allowing the other man to sit upright. The doctor sat on the nearest chair and rubbed his hands absently together.  
  
"Miss Littlebottom felt that she needed confirmation, a second opinion for something this sensitive, Sir Samuel." Lawn directed a surprisingly penetrating stare at Vimes who sat in the chair opposite and nodded at him to continue.  
  
"A sensible precaution, especially as she wasn't primarily testing for that eventuality." Lawn stopped speaking for a moment. "The next question is to the welfare of your wife. It is even more urgent now that we find her," he raised a hand to stop Vimes outraged protestations. "I KNOW you are doing everything you can, that isn't what I mean. The first 3 months of foetal development are the most crucial. If she is mistreated she could lose the baby. And a miscarriage whilst she's captive and without medical assistance could be fatal."  
  
Vimes paled as Lawn's words hit home.  
  
"I have to see his Lordship," he whispered.  
  
"Something else, Sir Samuel." The doctor hesitated as Vimes paused.  
  
"What? What?"  
  
"Your wife may not even *know* she's pregnant yet."  
  
After Dr Lawn had left, wearing a surprisingly sympathetic and concerned expression, Vimes sat like a statue in his chair and equally as cold. What should be the happiest news of his life was coalescing into white-hot dread and terror, the like of which he had never known. His baby, his unborn child, could perish and have its little life snuffed out before it had even begun, all because of some bastard… and Sybil, she might not even know, Dr Lawn had said, because it was so early…. He dropped his head in his hands. How much more? He asked silently, into the waiting cosmos. How much more do I have to take? She is innocent, innocent! She hasn’t done anything to deserve this, her life has been blameless and devoted to helping others – or at least the population of the city that has a tail and breathes fire, he mentally added to himself – why should she have to suffer? Why not me?

Vimes thoughts skidded to a halt. He stood up slowly and his darkening gaze glared malevolently out into the gathering night.  
  
“You utter, utter fuckers.” He growled deep in his throat. “This is your way of making me suffer.”


End file.
